


Never Thought Something So Beautiful Could Haunt You

by TheRealLifeCath



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Episode: s03e03 His Last Vow, Fluff and Angst, How Do I Tag, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Implied/Referenced Sex, John Watson Loves Sherlock Holmes, M/M, Mentioned Mary Morstan, Sad Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes Loves John Watson, TJLC | The Johnlock Conspiracy, Vulnerable Sherlock, set somewhere in season 3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-06
Updated: 2020-05-06
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:40:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24039025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheRealLifeCath/pseuds/TheRealLifeCath
Summary: “Don’t leave,” it blurts out, voice full of unguarded emotion.Sherlock waits, feels his face burn despite the alcohol still buzzing through his system.“I won’t,” John promises in the dark.A lie. Of course.~I’m terrible at summaries but this is basically angsty fic set somewhere in his last vow, following a one night stand on the stag night.
Relationships: Mary Morstan/John Watson, Sherlock Holmes & Parents, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 8
Kudos: 52





	Never Thought Something So Beautiful Could Haunt You

**Author's Note:**

> You have been warned there is lots of angsty angst angst... but I’m already writing a second chapter so don’t worry.
> 
> Title is taken from Haunt You by Social House, and yeah... go ahead and read I guess.

_ Hands everywhere.  _

_ ‘Not  everywhere,’  Sherlock’s mind corrects, excluding the impossible detail from his thoughts.  _

_ Hands not everywhere, but nevertheless everything.  _

_ One is on his thigh, warm and steady and grounding, the other, is in his own hand; fingers tightly laced. _

_ While the hands feel insanely intoxicating, the lips...  _

_ Hot lips, and soft touches to his neck, down to his collarbone; heavenly.  _

_ ‘No , not heavenly. No such thing as heaven - ludicrous religion doesn’t come into play here,’ his mind corrects again, supplying the information like a fact checker.  _

_ Sherlock tries and fails to come up with a better word, any word that could possibly describe the feeling of what John’s hands... his lips... were doing to him.  _

_ But nothing.  _

_ No word could come close to describing the feeling.  _

“Sherlock, hun, you with me?” Mrs Holmes, in her signature motherly tone, leans forward on the sofa, peering at her son, with raised eyebrows and a thin frown. 

Hearing her voice, Sherlock breaks free from his memories, and turns around. 

‘Where am I? 221B, what was happening?’ His mind hurried to catch up to real time. ‘Oh that’s right, parents, visiting, talking - conversational chatter.’

“Sorry, yes, you were um, saying?” Sherlock waves his hand in a gesture to tell his mum to continue. 

When she sits back, and continues her story about their new cat, Sherlock turns around, walking across the room to the fireplace. 

The empty mantle, reminds him of the lack of cases, of how close his brain is to imploding. 

So he struggles, but  tries , to listen to his parents stories about their domesticated and  boring life.

Before he can stop it, his mind is drifting again, deep into his mind palace where the dearest memories are kept safe and hidden. 

_ He can barely breathe.  _

_ And his limbs feel heavy and sore but it’s all so surprisingly  good . _

_ John, with his heavy breathing, and deep blue eyes, and warm body, drops to lie beside him, leaving achingly frustrating distance between them.  _

_ Sherlock huffs, and turns on his side, facing the man he loves more than anything in the world.  _

_ And his heart tears in two.  _

_ Because lying there between them is the reminder... the painful reminder of what morning brings.  _

_ It’s ugly and hideous and it starts tearing at Sherlock’s heart, cracking pieces away like a miner at work.  _

_ “Hey,” John’s soft voice, healing and breaking, and healing some more. “Come here.” _

_ A hand - John’s hand, reaches out, and Sherlock lets himself be pulled into the warm embrace of the doctor, the soldier, the man who stole his heart and refused to return it.  _

_ “Don’t leave,” it blurts out, voice full of unguarded emotion.  _

_ Sherlock waits, feels his face burn despite the alcohol still buzzing through his system. _

_ “I won’t,” John promises in the dark.  _

A lie. Of course.

Because the next morning Sherlock woke up alone, with multiple messages from Mary asking for final wedding plan decisions. 

And well, Sherlock’s heart broke into tiny pieces.

There he was, swearing that he’d never fall in love, running life’s race by Mycroft’s rules - playing the game, without the sentiment - _never_ the sentiment. 

But then Dr John Watson limped into his life and everything turned on it’s side. 

Sherlock became vulnerable to defeat, weaker, easier to hurt - to _burn_ \- when there was someone he loved close by. 

Now he knows what a broken heart feels like. 

And he wishes more than anything that he could take it all back, allow nothing close to sentiment into the game.

_Sentiment is found in the losing side._

His own words, now haunting him, biting at his already torn heart, cause him to feel sick. 

As the nausea rises, he takes a seat in his chair, trying to find something to ground him. 

_Caring isn’t an advantage._

Fools fall in love. 

And Sherlock believed he was no fool. But maybe Mycroft is right - maybe he  is the idiot. 

_I told you not to get involved._

Mycroft, always right, always infuriatingly correct when Sherlock least wants him to be. 

“You should’ve seen the state of our sofa, hun, it was dreadful, damn cat tore it to shreds!” 

Once again, Mrs Holmes breaks through Sherlock’s mind palace, interrupting the self destructive tangent of memories and thought.

“Trick is, give it a little spray of water, jumps right off the sofa!” Mr Holmes, chuckles. 

Sherlock manages a small, fake, smile to sway his parents into thinking he’s listening, into thinking he’s fine and well and _ok_. 

Generally all the things your parents want to hear and see. 

_ John.  _

_ Soft, rough, grumpy, kind, strong, weak, selfless, caring, funny, John Watson...  _

_ The man Sherlock loves more than anything, the only one he’s ever and will ever love like that, has left the space next to Sherlock empty, and cold.  _

_ Sherlock doesn’t know what he expected when he woke up, but... he thought John would at least say goodbye.  _

_ Leave a message.  _

_ ‘Maybe he’s ashamed of it,’ Sherlock’s brain, the detective side, suggests and Sherlock agrees. ‘Maybe he wished it have never happened.’ _

_ Sherlock, with a severe ache in his chest, and tears threatening to spill out of his eyes, lies back down.  _

_ He wraps himself up in the blankets, curls against the side of the bed that still holds the lingering smell of John, and sobs.  _

_ In that moment he isn’t a detective, isn’t the cold, careless, machine... he’s unavoidably human.  _

_ It hurts.  _

_ And no amount of cases could ease - _

“Uh hey...” 

John’s voice. 

Definitely, unbelievably _John._

Sherlock leaves his mind palace once more, eyes flitting around the room to find the doctor - the man who broke his heart. 

He’s standing in the doorway, awkwardly still and waiting for a response. 

Before Sherlock can even begin to come up with the appropriate reply given the current situation, his mother stands up and greets John with a bone crushing hug. 

Sherlock stares in shock, in horror, in mortification. 

“Mothe-“

“Oh John, so nice to properly greet you, we’ve heard so much about you,” Mrs Holmes continues to squeeze a very confused John Watson. 

Sherlock is now, most definitely flushing a deep red, still staring, flabbergasted as to how one single human could embarrass him so much with one sentence. 

“Have you just?” John asks, finally squeezing Mrs Holmes back in most likely a polite gesture of confusion mixed with gratitude. 

John glances directly at Sherlock when he asks Mrs Holmes that question, and it sends Sherlock into a state of panic. 

He stands from his chair and walks straight into the kitchen, keeping his down, keeping his stupidly blushing cheeks out of John’s view. 

Fools fall in love. 

Sherlock is most definitely a fool. 

**Author's Note:**

> Hope it wasn’t too bad. Leave a kudos if you liked it, if you really liked it or have constructive feedback leave a comment. As always, pls be kind, I wrote this while exhausted.


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